The Imaginary Friend’s Obsession (Monster Research Facility #3)

Chapter Four

T he rest of the week passes in a blur. I clean and wander the empty halls and reacquaint myself with the house. I avoid the attic and try not to stare at the floorboards at the bottom of the stairs. Is there still a reddish tinge to the wood, or is it my imagination?

Just as I’ve built myself a safe place, I’m forced to leave it, because soon arrives the day I’m supposed to go to the Melsbach Research Facility.

My stomach ties itself into knots at the thought. There’s an itch under my skin, a nervous hum in my bones. Untapped energy with nowhere to go. I prefer to hide away when I feel like this, but I can’t when they’re dangling the promise of Dorian in front of me.

Dorian, Dorian. I’ve been trying so hard not to think his name or see his face in the empty corners of the house. I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself to hope for something. And there’s still a steady chant in the back of my mind— not real, not real, not real . It sounds like my parents, my psychiatrist, the MRF, and I still don’t know if I can trust my own voice above theirs.

I tremble through the entire drive over to that horrible, stark facility on the edge of town, and barely manage to squeak my name out to the security guard at the gate. When he calls in to the facility on the radio, I’m certain I’m about to be swarmed by men in suits. But the guard waves me through, and I walk inside. Right into the jaws of the waiting beast.

“Daisy?” I flinch. I’m still getting used to the idea of fitting myself into that name again. A young man approaches me. “I’m Ezra Bradford. Thank you for coming.”

Ezra is barely older than I am, reedy and nonthreatening despite his considerable height. His eyes are kind behind his black-rimmed glasses. His tie has dinosaurs on it. I stare at it; the MRF I remember isn’t the kind of place where men wearing dinosaur ties work.

“Thank you so much for coming here,” he says, and holds out a hand. “I know this must have been difficult.”

He doesn’t mention the fact that I was supposed to be at the airport this morning and wasn’t.

I bite the inside of my cheek and accept his hand. As our fingers brush, a strange feeling zips through me—some mixture of a static shock and an intense sense of déjà vu.

Ezra drops my hand and looks as taken aback as I feel. “Have we met before?” he asks, flexing his fingers before sliding them into his pocket.

“I don’t think so.” I’m certain we haven’t, but for a moment, it felt like I knew him. An instant connection. Not romantic, but the way I’d imagine I’d feel if I met some long-lost relative or someone I knew in a past life. But I shake it off.

“Could we step into my office?” Ezra asks.

I want to remind him he promised I could see Dorian. But saying it out loud will be as good as admitting I no longer believe he’s not real. I glance over my shoulder at the exit, and then back at Ezra. The silence hangs between us.

“My hope is that the better I understand him, the better care I can provide,” Ezra says.

The corners of my mouth twitch downward. Care , he calls it? I desperately want to retreat, but I can’t. I need to be brave. “Okay.”

Ezra guides me toward a bearded man in a security uniform. My eyes dart from his name tag— Hunter Barnes —to the scar that cuts across his cheek, and finally to my shoes.

“Barnes, this is the temp I mentioned,” Ezra says. “She’s here to consult on Subject X-15.”

I note the use of “X-15” instead of “Dorian,” like he’s been saying to me. The knot of anxiety in my gut winds tighter.

The security guard checks his clipboard. “Got it. You’re good to go.”

We step through the metal detector, and Ezra scans his ID card to open the door leading into the facility. He holds the door open for me.

I hesitate at the doorway, glancing over my shoulder once more, and force myself to step through.

The fluorescent lights, the too-white walls, the endless metal doors… I’ve never been to this place, but I’ve had nightmares that started like this. It reminds me of the mental hospital. My palms sweat as Ezra leads me through the halls. He stops in front of a door and I clasp my hands to hide their trembling.

His office is surprisingly cozy. A bookshelf in one corner holds a medley of books on ghost hunting and paranormal experiences, along with a Boba Fett figurine and an oversized D20. A coffee mug with an image of a cactus and the words “Don’t be a prick” holds pens on his desk.

It’s hard to connect someone like Ezra to the MRF agents I met on that night seven years ago. Still, I sit on the edge of the chair he offers, ready to bolt for the door if necessary. Across the desk from me, Ezra opens a folder and grabs a pen.

My stomach curdles with dread, already anticipating the questions he’s going to ask. One question in particular. I already have the answer ready: I don’t remember .

But instead Ezra says, “First off, let me tell you about me.”

I blink in surprise.

“I work with a variety of subjects here,” he continues. “Generally with those classified as ghosts or spirits. Dorian shares some common traits with them. The invisibility and incorporeality, the fact that he can be confined with salt and iron, that all aligns with what I know about ghosts.”

I used to wonder how they managed to capture and trap Dorian…until I stopped wondering and started telling myself he was never real. My mind is still ping-ponging between the two beliefs. I sit with my hands folded in my lap, trying not to squirm.

“My initial theory was that he was a poltergeist,” Ezra continues. “That checked out when I looked into the history of your house.” He passes a folder over to me, with an old newspaper clipping sitting on top. There’s a faded image of a somber, dark-haired young boy. My stomach flips as I look into his familiar eyes. “That’s Dorian Elwood. His family lived in the house before yours, and he disappeared when he was about ten.”

I can’t take my eyes off the picture. He looks familiar…and yet not. I remember the pencil marks on my doorway, which began at my size as a child and grew so much taller.

“Poltergeists are usually the ghosts of murdered children, their hauntings intense but brief. But Dorian has been around for seven years in our custody alone, and he doesn’t behave like a child.”

I can feel Ezra’s eyes on me, but I keep my gaze firmly on the desk between us. He hasn’t asked any questions yet, so I don’t speak; I haven’t decided how much I’m willing to tell him, anyway. I’m still afraid he’ll suddenly swap from talking about him like this to insisting that Dorian never existed, just like the MRF agents did seven years ago.

“Even with poltergeists, I’ve never seen a spirit that can interact with the physical world as much as he does,” Ezra continues. Then he pauses. “Or at least, as much as he did.”

My stomach drops, and I finally lift my eyes to meet his. “What do you mean?”

“Dorian is fading,” he says. “When I first started working here, he was notably corporeal most of the time. He would interact with objects in the room frequently and react to various stimuli. But now days go by without any activity.” He looks from his notes to me. “It’s natural for ghosts to pass on eventually. Normally, I’d encourage it. But when I read his file, I wanted to make sure you had a chance to see him first.”

I can only stare at him, my face stricken. I’m imagining what would’ve happened if I hadn’t picked up that call or agreed to come here. What if Dorian had faded away into nonexistence before I had a chance to see him? My stomach clenches with dread; the emotion is stronger than that persistent whisper in my head that all of this is a lie. I need to see him. I need to know that he does exist, even if it’s only for a chance to say goodbye.

“Please,” I say, my voice trembling. “Can I talk to him?”

Ezra nods. “Yes, but I should warn you, his behavior has been erratic—”

“I’m not afraid of Dorian.” That has always been the truth.

“It’s been years since you last saw him,” Ezra says. “He may not be the same as you remember.”

My instinct is always to nod and agree, to keep my head down, to make myself as small and nonthreatening as possible. But I force myself to speak up now, even though my hands are trembling in my lap. “You promised me I could see him.”

Ezra hesitates. “You can,” he says. “But— I’m sorry, I can’t let you into his holding cell. I wish I could, but we recently had an incident with a subject escaping with a hostage. Security is on edge. And given Dorian’s history…”

He looks at me like he’s expecting me to refute it, but I look away. I breathe in and out, keeping a lid on my emotions. “Then why did you bring me here?” I ask.

“I can’t let you into the room,” Ezra says, “but I can still let you talk to him.”